Gang Bang Your Dead

What is this terrible world coming to when a gay man cannot cruise his local park looking for a fat dick to munch on without getting mugged? Although Knudsen the original gay cruiser is grateful the beefy sword swallower didn't actually blow me away with the big black pistola concealed about his groin I am still kinda pissed that he made me shat in my new pants out of fright for my worthless old life. I am not a criminal myself, male rape, rimming and belching is legal in Mississippi of course, so my last run in with the Sheriff was nothing to tell your Maw about. Normally I like to linger in the park after sundown, so much to do other than meet aged oddballs in the foliage. If you have never watched other peoples pooches sniff new butts then take a shit on the sidewalk you really have not lived buster! Anyhoo, straight after you popped out your peeny I very nearly evacuated my bowels at the thought of the fun about to unfold itself from your zipper. You had to go and spoil it though. The occasional whiff of cock cheddar can be an aphrodisiac in the right circles, but your smegma was thicker than Goldilocks porridge for chrisakes. And to think I nearly blew you right then and there. Whadda-mistaka-to-maka huh?
Anyways, back to the park, it's nearly dark and I would not want to miss you coming again. Awesome.

Predator On The Run

A shallow debaser, a ghey fool amongst fools, a shadow searching for the sun before I can exist. America hates me, I hate me, everyone hates me. It sucks being a Knudsen, just ask my mom., An outcast, a mongrel, a trash monkey, a jizz hound. I eat, speak and mix pure crap. Lounge lizards look down upon me, I am homosexual and proud, I am the world famous Old Knudsen thrown out of the, United States

Special Thanks

My special thanks to the Port Authority, Ellis Island, NYPD, Philip Morris, Colonel Sanders, Gilligan and the Skipper, the guy who invented ghey pornography, the hairy legged washed up B movie star who lives upstairs, and of course his royal highness Pope John-Paul III. No thanks however to Uncle Sam and all those assholes at City Hall who deported me for the minor offense of molestation in the subway. Thank you to the Romanian / Peruvian/ Australian / British / American / Serbian army for training me in the deadly arts of Special Farces, self-rimming and making me a deadly keeler. Thank you to Barry's Tea, Tayto crisps and Arthur Guinness. A special thanks to my right hand for now being my only companion. I love you too Lefty, but not quite as much. Thank you to MJ for introducing me to hordes of her dried up lesbian pen-pals and the smell of her gas. I now have more stored gas fragrances than Estee Lauder. But most of all, thank you to me. Without Knudsen the world would be shittier than a Harlem crapper after a half eaten bucket of greasy fried chicken. Duller than a blog dedicated purely to kittens and horses. Worse than the Beatles animated car-tune movie, and lastly, more lonely than an ageing female Canadian blogger.